Thus Tess walks on; a figure which is part of the landscape; a fieldwoman pure and simple, in winter guise; a gray serge cape, a red woollen cravat, a stuff skirt covered by a whitey-brown rough wrapper, and buff-leather gloves. Every thread of that old attire has become wire-drawn and thin under the stroke of rain-drops, the burn of sunbeams, and the stress of winds. There is no sign of young passion in her now—
The maiden's mouth is cold.
•••••Fold over simple fold
Binding her head.
Inside this exterior, over which the eye might
have roved as over a thing scarcely percipient,
almost inorganic, there was the record of a pulsing life which had learnt too well, for its years,
of the dust and ashes of things, of the cruelty
of lust and the fragility of love.
Next day the weather was bad, but she trudged on, the honesty, directness, and impartiality of elemental enmity disconcerting her but little. Her object being a winter's occupation and a winter's home, there was no time to
